If nothing comes first
—there will be a Riot of time.
Over over-
Throw
there is nothing.
A, ad-
vance, a
Threat
of dark upon
light, the very Idea
of color.
Unred
the road, its
Turn a-
Part
—its pattern
a
connective void, the
Unlikely a-
Voidance of all
rays, of all right.
So hopeless is the play of Place,
canted to one & one condition, shun.
Now to speak the spike
Into unhurt name, the
heart—
That thought of that, that
thought of thought
alone—
from The Absolute LetterFind more by Andrew Joron at the library
Copyright © Andrew Joron
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.